


Frames

by hunted



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Blow Jobs, Bodily Fluids, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Glasses, Hair-pulling, Licking, M/M, Messy, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse (briefly mentioned), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Scents & Smells, Self-Esteem, Smut, just very occasional references to peter's past, within reason and with a purpose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunted/pseuds/hunted
Summary: Morse arrived home one day, and Peter had gotten glasses.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://jarseman.tumblr.com/post/642473234430836736/jarseman-peter-jakes-glasses-headcanon-anyone) and by a guy I met recently. Please ignore any mistakes. I'm insanely hungover. Quality not guaranteed.

Morse arrived home one day, and Peter had gotten glasses.

He was reclining on the couch, having returned a few hours ago himself. True to form, he had lit a cigarette immediately. The trappings of his work uniform were only partially shed, dark grey trousers unbuttoned but not yet cast aside, creamy white undershirt still in place where his button-down and tie had been thrown off the moment he crossed the threshold into their home. His suit jacket was draped, with a carelessness bordering on contempt, over the back of a nearby chair. His dark hair was messy and still damp, mussed by Peter’s own fingers in the bathroom; an effort to shake off the stiffness of his professional veneer.

Afternoon sun framed him, warmed him prettily. A fine dusting of stubble darkened his cheeks and accentuated his jawline, catching the light only barely. It would be gone once again, come morning, disappearing beneath the scratch of a careful blade.

Nobody got to see this side of Peter. Nobody except Morse.

But today, he was being treated to something new. Peter was lovely as ever, utterly and always striking, but something had changed since last they spoke.

Thick black frames crested the bridge of his nose, perched between his eyes. The design of them was simple, but they perfectly complimented his slender, angular face. The lenses captured his stormy blue eyes, gently sloped and half-lidded, his gaze rising to consider Morse- who stood, silent and stunned, in the doorway to their home. Peter seemed familiar and, somehow, utterly different. The combination of it all, the spectacles and such a handsomely dishevelled state, drove Morse to speechless contemplation. He always had been too romantic for his own good.

Peter sighed, a stream of smoke bursting from between pink lips and softening into a cloud.

"Vision issues," he explained, "Those headaches. These'll help. Don't bloody know how a piece of glass makes a difference, but I'm hopin' for the best."

Morse nodded. "Right."

"Held out as long as I could. Got to the point I couldn't concentrate, though. Hurt like a bastard. So," he gestured to his face.

"Well, we don't want you in pain."

"Sure."

"...Everything alright?"

"Look a right fuckin’ twat, don’t I.”

Morse blinked, once, and then closed the door behind him. Peter continued to smoke, sullen now. He had interpreted Morse’s silence as judgement. An easy thing to do, for someone like him, and this was certainly not the first time they had encountered such a dynamic. Morse didn’t speak up enough. Peter assumed too much, and altogether not enough. He was quick to proclaim himself repulsive, unattractive, worthy of dismissal. Morse knew why. It had made him angry, once. But anger was useless. Better to be soft; to be relentlessly, boundlessly, and unashamedly genuine in his affections. Fighting about insecurities was simply a means of prolonging them.

He placed his bag down, took off his coat. Peter continued smoking.

Morse walked over to the couch, right in front of the man he had come to consider his closest friend and dearest partner. He curled a hand beneath Peter’s chin, cupping his the shape of his jaw. Morse gently, but insistently, lifted his face upward. Peter looked up at him, surly still, retaining aspects of an insolent child. Morse smiled, but his expression was not a full grin. His eyes were too heavy for that, weighed down by lust, by the kind of intent such a display encouraged.

Peter’s lips parted, his forehead smoothing, frown loosening into a shocked expression as he witnessed the intensity of Morse’s desire.

“No,” Morse breathed, “You don’t look like a twat. You look…”

An exhalation shivered from Peter’s mouth, tickling Morse’s skin. The cigarette was discarded, left to burn itself out in a silent, but deliberate, recognition of what may come next. Palms rose to press against taut thighs, trouser fabric shifting quietly as Peter held Morse's legs and eased him closer still. And throughout all this, he looked upwards, the shine of glass far more pretty than either of them perhaps expected. Morse didn't dare say that he wanted to dirty those glasses, paint them white as Peter looked up at him, gasping for air through spit-slick lips.

“…magnificent.”

“You bloody poet,” Peter chuckled, “They’re just some specs.”

“Not on you. Not like this.” Morse held Peter's face with both hands, careful not to dislodge the glasses. “They suit you. The shape of your profile. You’re…”

“Wish I’d known you’re so easy. Would’ve got a pair ages ago.”

“Oh, I’m easy,” Morse agreed with a sigh, “I’m always easy, when it comes to you.”

Peter seemed convinced now, happier. He let Morse hold him, let stillness settle between their bodies. It was rare, that he allowed such a thing to occur. Part of him was still terribly aware that they were two men. The moments when he allowed this to be exciting, to be beautiful, were to be treasured. He wasn’t like Morse, couldn’t throw himself with biblical martyrdom into any affair which tugged at his heart and dominated his every waking moment. Peter had been taught restraint and fear from a young age, taught how to hide emotion. How to lie.

But today, he felt free. Free to sit on a couch, looking up at a man who stood against him. A man who held his face and gazed down at him with love. He wondered what they looked like, the pair of them, and for the first time wished their bond could be immortalised in art. How precious their union was, how wonderful such simple joys could be when the world denied your tenderness was true. The two of them, framed by afternoon light, locked in this moment.

Peter’s hands rose, slender fingers against the swell of Morse’s crotch.

They didn’t speak for a long moment. Morse moved one palm around to hold Peter’s hair, dragging blunt nails against Peter’s scalp. Peter began undoing pant buttons, heart thrumming harder.

“You really find me…”

“…beautiful.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Morse whispered, because he knew Peter needed to hear it, “Yes, I do.”

Peter’s face flushed with heat, gaze dropping lower. He pulled the trousers down just enough to reveal the straining front of Morse’s underwear, revelling in being so observed, so penetrated by the gaze trained upon him. Ordinarily he would get it over with fast, sex perfunctory even as it was enjoyable, actions rushed along by an undercurrent of shame and fear.

This time, he leaned forward, pressing his face against dampening fabric. Morse gasped sharply, clutching Peter’s hair.

Peter inhaled, breathing in salt and heady musk. His glasses fogged when he breathed out, mouth opening wide. He licked a wet stripe up the trapped, hardening length. Morse made a helpless, broken sound; somewhere between a laugh and a whimper, as though awe-struck by the sight of Peter doing this, the sensations that churned hotly in his belly and quivered throughout his entire body.

"I like the way you smell," Peter groaned, "I ever told you that?"

He heard Morse swallow thickly, the grip on his hair tightening. "No, I can't say I remember you mentioning such a thing."

"I think about it, at work."

"At work?"

"Yeah. Other things too. But this," Peter nuzzled against Morse's cock, dragging his cheek and mouth over it, and then peering upwards through those damn glasses, "I've thought about this a lot."

Morse looked aroused to the point of devastation.

"Okay," he replied, voice squeaky.

Peter continued licking at him, wetting the outside of the tented underwear. Morse let him. There was an unspoken understanding that Peter was doing something entirely new, something that excited him. He was edging past the barriers he had found previously impenetrable, a tactile exploration for the benefit of him as much as it was for his lover's pleasure. 

***

Morse lasted longer than Peter would have expected, if he'd had the ability to imagine these uncharted territories at all.

"Fuck it."

The words were breathy and sudden, bursting from Morse without warning. He let go of Peter's head and shoved his trousers down lower, hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband of his underwear and doing the same. His cock was against Peter's cheek, then, the tip painting his skin with a faint stripe of opaque fluid. Morse took himself in hand, and then grasped Peter's hair once more.

"Open," he demanded, "Look up at me and open your mouth."

Peter did as he was told. The command felt thrilling, and was completely desired. Morse sounded wrecked, and Peter's skin boiled with prideful heat, knowing he was the sole cause of such trembling need. Morse had been his first in many ways. And he was certainly the first to make Peter hungry for submission, for the dance of conquering and yielding. He had known commands of cruelty, once. But with Morse, he was safe, and he knew it; he held the reigns here, he could end this with one single motion. And that meant the world.

He unfurled his tongue, swallowing down Morse's cock in one fluid, practiced motion.

Morse pushed the glasses up the bridge of Peter's nose, making them sit properly. He rocked his hips, tugging Peter's head forward with one hand now. Peter gazed up at him, guileless and hungry to be beautiful for once.

"Christ," Morse grunted.

Peter pressed the flat of his tongue against the swelling underside, dragged it against sensitive skin, felt a hot pulse in response.

"God, Peter."

He wanted to make a smart-arse comment about Morse only finding religion at the most inappropriate times, but then his hair was being grabbed once more, harder this time. And when Morse rocked his hips, it was more insistent, more purposeful. Peter felt a surge of emotion in his chest, and his hands rose instinctually to press against Morse's thighs. Pulling him closer, though the action was misinterpreted; Morse faltered, panting hungrily, but still so desperate to be kind.

"You alright?"

Peter nodded. To prove it, he ducked his face down, taking Morse deep. Given permission to continue, Morse did so. With gusto.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter knew he’d think about this later.

When he walked into the office, when colleagues cracked jokes about his new look, when they asked to try on his glasses as people inevitably did. He would go along with it, laughing and smiling, and he would cast a discrete glance over at Morse, seeking his reaction. Waiting for the other man to appear sheepish and shy, clearing his throat and tugging at his ear, embarrassed to know that the very same glasses he had defiled were now being passed around the station.

He was aggressive as he fucked Peter’s face; more forceful than they usually got. Peter knew that their neighbours must be able to hear this, must be blushing as the sounds of raw, heavy panting filtered through thin walls. He knew it should scare him, knew they had to be careful to keep their relationship secret, but denial would serve its purpose later, if it ever came to that. In the meantime, and rather without his conscious intent, all their pseudo-exhibitionism prompted within him was burning arousal. He liked that Morse was losing control, liked knowing that this was all for him, that a brutish testament to Morse’s uncontrollable lust was being so unashamedly broadcast. He had been bobbing his head, tongue encouraging his partner’s enjoyment, but such nuance had been abandoned.

He held onto Morse’s legs, sliding his fingers wherever he pleased, dragging his touch over the rug of chestnut hair which blanketed tender, pale skin. He liked Morse’s thighs, liked that these legs so obviously belonged to a man. It turned him on. Morse’s trousers were falling down as he continued on, and no effort had been made to extricate himself from the clothing completely. He was still wearing his shoes. The desperation of it was not lost on Peter, and in fact, made it even better.

“God, Peter,” Morse whispered, “God, you’re,”

Peter hummed in some kind of agreement, though he wasn’t sure what compliment may have been offered.

“Look at me, look at me.”

Peter did as he was told, peering upwards. As he did, motions easy as clockwork, one hand released the curve of Morse’s thigh to attend to Peter’s own needs, moving beneath his own waistband so that he could take himself in hand. He continued to gaze up, let Morse see the tightening of his eyes and the wanton frown which tugged at his brows, the pleasure and need that transformed his expression the moment warm skin pressed against the aching length of his cock. He swayed into his own touch, unable to get a proper grip while still wearing trousers, but enjoying the restriction.

“Fuck, Peter. Fuck.”

Peter groaned, the sound muffled and wet. He’d made similar noises with his face between the legs of a pretty girl, delighted to participate in this particular submission regardless of the musk that was flooding his mouth, regardless of the length he sucked on. He enjoyed being watched, enjoyed hands in his hair, enjoyed the freedom to be passive and yet still safe. His lovers blurred, female or male or neither in a dark room, androgynised by the purpose they served. He was no poor, helpless child- not now. He was a man, and he wanted to be seen by his partners, wanted to be their obsession, their muse. He gave because it was his way of taking, of reclaiming this act, this body.

Sex was more than just chemical.

It was spiritual.

The revelation was silent, and perhaps ironic, given the animalistic pace with which Morse fucked his mouth. Loneliness had once been a splash of heat over his fist, the sense of shame as he cleaned up afterwards and tried to deny his desires for the masculine and the feminine. This was not loneliness. This was worship.

“Peter, Peter, I’m- I’m gonna,”

Peter moaned, the sound vibrating against Morse, no doubt pushing him closer to the edge. Morse gasped, his face shiny with sweat now, his chest heaving. He pulled Peter’s hair, yanking his head back. A string of white hung between Peter’s open, gasping mouth and Morse’s length for a moment, before snapping and hanging loose. Peter moved to wipe his face, but Morse gripped his hair harder, just hard enough to make Peter’s scalp burn.

“Leave it,” he huffed, “Leave it.”

Peter did, breathing hard. His face was wet, defiled, moisture dripping thickly down his chin. He touched himself more enthusiastically, knees spread where he knelt, arm moving quick. Morse was jerking off with one hand, while he held Peter’s head still with a fist made pale-knuckled by need.

“You’re so,” Morse began brokenly, “You’re-”

“Tell me,” Peter demanded, focussing on Morse through fogged lenses, his breaths hot, “Fuckin’ tell me, I want you to say it.”

“You’re so, so bloody beautiful, Peter, I-”

Peter closed his eyes, trembling. Those words felt so good, and for some reason, also prompted a swell of aching, helpless sadness alongside his quivering arousal. The things that turned him on the most also made him feel like crying. He was yet to unpack that completely, but if pressed, he knew what had made him this way. And Morse, keen-eyed and analytical even at his most primal, knew as well.

“You’re so beautiful, Peter. I want to look at you all the time, at work, at home, I want- all the time, I want you so much, and it’s-”

Peter shuddered, bowing over, hand clenched around his length. He came while still wearing his trousers, a strangled whine escaping his mouth before he could stop it.

He was still shaking, aftershocks pummelling through him, when Morse wrenched his face upward once again. Peter was dazed, shivering as colours danced across his vision, lashes dipping low as he looked without focussing. He felt more helpless than usual, more loose-limbed and feeble than he usually was when they fucked. Morse was speaking, grunting something filthy and hopelessly romantic about the shape of Peter’s arse, but Peter couldn’t focus on the words, couldn’t drag himself back from the brink. It was all he could do to stay upright, swaying on his knees, as Morse came across his face and glasses. Ropes of the thick fluid splashed across his cheeks, striping over the lenses and landing in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls let me know what u think of this filth, i love hearing from y'all


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